


say you'll see me again (even if it's just in your wildest dreams)

by hearden



Series: ranger lovefest [3]
Category: Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, Power Rangers
Genre: F/F, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-08 12:55:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12254823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearden/pseuds/hearden
Summary: You hand over your duty to a girl with sunshine hair and leave, your apology stuck in your throat.(kimkat inspired by kathillards' another name goes up in lights)





	say you'll see me again (even if it's just in your wildest dreams)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kathillards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathillards/gifts).
  * Inspired by [another name goes up in lights](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4586535) by [kathillards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathillards/pseuds/kathillards). 



> another name goes up in lights is honestly the best fic i've ever read in the entirety of ever like please go read it, it changed my life and watered my crops and allowed the flame of kimkat to burn eternally in my heart
> 
> so in honor of it and of kimkat lovefest month, i wrote a thing that's kind of a spiritual successor? idk there's feels so yeah

Your story begins before you're whisked away to become a superhero, pretty in pink.

 

* * *

 

You're in junior high, and your best friend says that she loves you. Stupidly and fully not knowing what love is, you say that you love her, too.

There are childish things that you associate with love -- trading books between friends and seeing how everyone treats each one (you dog-ear pages and everyone gets mad at you for it), sharing clothes (except you're the shortest, so good luck), warm hugs and waving at each other down the hallways.

And, then, there's the real things -- your dad tucking you in when you were younger and reading Grumble the Magic Elf again and again until you never got tired of it, your mom taking you shopping and calling you beautiful in a new dress, your parents taking you to and picking you up from practice even when work was tiring.

There are words for this -- adoration, loyalty, devotion, affection.

Who are you to know anything about _love_ , though?

 

* * *

 

Your parents get divorced. You pack up all your things, and begrudgingly follow your mom to Angel Grove.

 

* * *

 

Angel Grove is many things -- not Seattle, for one.

It takes time, but you find your niche.

You just never expected it to be wearing spandex and fighting space monsters. However, pink has always looked great on you.

 

* * *

 

It's over too soon, though. Nearly two years of your life blur together, and it's only once you're in Florida that you realize how conditioned you were to being a Ranger.

You can't remember for your life half of the teachers you had in freshman year, but the names of every monster you've ever faced comes back with startling clarity in your nightmares.

The legacy you leave behind you personally entrust to a girl with sunshine hair and eyes as blue as the ocean. She is young and naive -- at least, you hope so. Those types make the best heroes, you think, the ones who don't yet know.

Every couple of weeks, you call her, a thousand miles away, because you can. Not because you're dying to grasp at a thread of your old life, no, absolutely _not._ But, just because you want to -- because hearing her voice through the phone becomes another routine among the dozens you drag around with you daily.

During your calls, you shove the nightmares, the anxiety, the paranoia deep down so that she can't hear it in your voice. If she can hear it, then she'll say something, and if she says something, then everything will come falling apart.

Push the nightmares down, and rise above as you always do, like a phoenix.

 

* * *

 

The thing about phoenixes, though, is that they must first shed their feathers and burn in a supernova before they can be reborn.

Step one: shed the feathers.

It takes weeks of drafting letters to write the perfect one, and before that, it'd taken months of indecisive contemplating to come to the idea of a letter. In all honesty, it's not perfect at all.

It's a lie, spoken by a girl whose worst lie was telling herself that she was doing fine, but you can't risk having him close when you burn up.

You stick his letter in an envelope and seal it with your last kiss.

 

* * *

 

You're one of the youngest gymnasts to come home with four golds in the Pan Globals. Your face looks fresh, naive, young on the first magazine you end up on the cover of. _From valley girl to world-famous athlete,_ the subtitle reads.

You know your story already, the scripted interview answers that you'd given, but you grab a copy and throw it into your grocery cart anyway.

 

* * *

 

She calls you after the break-up, and her silence is telling. She waits for you to speak first while you wait for her to ask you how you're doing.

 _How are you?_ you ask instead, finally caving in.

Her _I'm doing alright,_ sounds like a lie, but when she asks, your _I'm doing alright, too,_ sounds like the bigger lie.

 _I have to go,_ you say before hanging up, _Gotta wake up early for training tomorrow._ It's not necessarily a lie, but you just don't want to sit in this tense awkwardness anymore. You know her too well. She would've been there for him, and now, she wants to be there for you. That's just who she is, and once upon a time, you would've welcomed the waiting shoulder.

But, that's not just who you are anymore.

 

* * *

 

Dating doesn't feel the same as it used to. It's not that you can't brush the thought of him out of your head, but rather, you can't brush the thought of _yourself_ out of your head.

You can kiss a boy, you can even kiss a girl, but all of it feels off -- practiced, scripted. There's a formula on where to put your hands, how to react, how to smile so that you get a second date. Routine has taken over your life, and all of this is just a checklist you clean up before bed.

You're someone else wearing your own skin, going through the motions, saying the words but never believing them.

 

* * *

 

An invite to a little get-together you receive is, thankfully, answered, and you book a flight back home. All the faces in the crowd are familiar, but at the same time, nothing feels quite right. The bonfire, the music, the chit-chat and laughter -- all of it feels slightly off like your entire life has been moved two inches to the left while you were gone.

She almost seems as displaced as you feel, so you hug her, tightly, trying to bring back a time where your hugs weren't entirely empty and you had the whole world in front of you. _I missed you,_ you say and tug on her sleeve, _Come on, let's go out to the water._

You take her hand in yours and dance circles around her, losing yourself in the calmness of the water coming up around your ankles. You laugh at the way she shakes her head at you, slightly amused, and you decide that you won't ask her to come drown in the open sea with you.

 _How have you been?_ you ask, offhandedly, picking up a seashell that your foot brushes against. It's pink and white and ironic. You squeeze it in your hands, but you're not strong enough to make it shatter.

She doesn't answer, so you murmur, _The ocean is for secrets, you know._

Here is yours: you were always fated to be a phoenix, even before the moment you first picked up your power coin. It is written into your destiny to keep burning up.

She has a different idea. _Do you still love him?_

You freeze and swallow the stone in your throat. _I'll always love him,_ you say, evasively, _He loves you now. Don't doubt that._

Your eyes drop to the seashell in your hands, and you press it into hers -- another gift, but this time, there's no pink spark between your fingers.

 

* * *

 

It's impossible to see her face behind the visor as you're lowered into a fiery death, but your last thought is that she's filled out pink pretty well.

Step two: burn up in a supernova.

It'd be easier if you couldn't remember anything at all afterwards, but you do. You remember every single moment, even if it was all overlaid with a red haze and an itch you could only scratch with unadulterated violence.

 _We're your friends,_ she pleads with you.

 _Friends?_ You can't help but scoff, _I don't have any friends._

The words taste like copper on your tongue, but the hellish thing is that you believe them.

 

* * *

 

Phoenixes can live for thousands of years before they're reborn. You'd like to think this means that your soul has gone on for centuries, traversed the world, and lived, coming back around to you. Somewhere, sometime out there, you have been humbled to your knees before, you have died before, and you have been reborn before.

Step three: be born again and again and again.

You end up outside of a cafe, with everyone else inside, with her out here.

Your shirt is black -- you haven't worn pink since kicking her hard enough to cave her chest in if she hadn't been filled with superhuman toughness. Maybe one day you'll wear it again, but today isn't that day.

 _Thank you,_ you say, _Thank you for saving me._ You, the golden girl under these golden lights, with a girl with golden hair in front of you.

You lean against the lamppost and smile, waiting for her.

 _You saved me first,_ she replies, and your smile falters at the gravity of her words. You blink and stare at her a little more intensely, a little more curiously. Your first instinctive thought is _Katherine can't wait_ and _She's my friend_ and _I have to help her._ Out of her line of sight, you flex your fingers by your side and wish you could feel that adrenaline rush again, but a nagging in your head teases that you'd just use that power to hurt her.

Your second instinctive thought is that she means more than she says, but you don't ask. Maybe you're afraid of the answer, maybe you're afraid of your response.

 _You're lucky,_ you say instead of everything else you want to say, _New powers, new friends, new world. You've done so much with what I left you._

She seems to fall a little at that. _New monsters,_ she counters. You shake your head and laugh, waving the idea away with a hand. _New battles,_ she tries again.

 _You can handle it,_ your voice is firm, reassuring, _You can handle anything. You are so strong, Kat. And so brave._

If you say it enough about her, then maybe you will start to believe it about yourself, too.

She says nothing, so you smile and pull her into a hug -- your first genuine one in years.

 

* * *

 

After high school graduation, you get a call from her. She's in London, now, only an hour behind you. The time difference is closer. _You_ feel closer, but to what is the question. To her, to life, to everything.

 _I broke up with him,_ she whispers through the phone, too apologetic, too sad, _I'm sorry._

You expected as much. She is a different story, and neither of you belong in his. _You have nothing to apologize for._

She takes a deep breath, _You gave him to me, didn't you?_ You swallow your answer, so she continues, _I'm sorry I wasted your love._

 _You didn't,_ you respond, almost immediately, your voice unwavering, _You love too much, Kat. You could never waste mine._

Your chest feels like caving in. _You could never waste my heart,_ you almost say but bite the words back. It's too soon, and you need more time to make up for lost time, for your lost youth.

 _Come visit me,_ she suggests, softly, and you laugh, your heart thudding in your chest. It's infinitely easier to do that, now that she's only a country away instead of an entire ocean. _Yes, yes, yes, a million times yes,_ you want to say, but instead, you just say it once, testing the waters with your toes.

The two of you spend the rest of the night talking until jet lag overcomes her and she falls asleep with the phone still next to her ear. It would make sense to hang up the moment you realize she's out cold, but you linger, just for a moment, just to hear her breathing.

You commit the sound to memory and wonder about waking up to it and think _Maybe one day._

 

* * *

 

Your story ends with a full definition of love. It is many things, some of them bad -- guilt and anxiety and depression and loneliness -- and some good -- bravery and loyalty and selflessness and adoration.

But, most of all, it is pink.

**Author's Note:**

> title from Wildest Dreams - Taylor Swift
> 
> practically everything in this fic belongs to kathillards which means you should go read her amazing fic, another name goes up in lights, because this wouldn't exist if i hadn't read it and become changed forever


End file.
